No, no, not at all. Let me see. Sometimes, oh very rarely, but just sometimes, I’ve thought if you could be a little tidier—not drop everything about, anywhere; and then sometimes, since you’re asking me, if I could know within an hour or so when you are coming to meals it would be a little more convenient, in the housekeeping, you know. I mean, of course, nicer for you; I don’t mind. That’s all I can think of—and of course I wouldn’t have said anything unless you’d asked. Oh, Hugh, I’m afraid I’ve been unkind. Have I? Oh do say I haven’t! It doesn’t matter much about the meals, truly it doesn’t; just on your account, that’s all. HUGH. Always on my account! Always fussing about me! Good Lord! haven’t you got any opinions of your own? Don’t you ever think of anything more interesting than what to get for my dinner? Great Scott! ANNABELLE. But, Hugh, it makes me so happy to think about what you’d like for your dinner! I know I have lots of faults, yes, of course I must have, but I do try to be a good housekeeper, and I think I am. What other faults have I got? HUGH. Hm! Faults! I guess perhaps it’s your virtues, then! There are too many of them. They stick out all over you like pins on the pink pin-cushion in the guest-room. In the first place, I’d like to know why you don’t grow old. You’re too darn good-looking. You’re just as soft and pink and white and dimpled as when I married you ten years ago. It’s outrageous! [_ANNABELLE picks up the frock and purrs softly up at him with an adoring smile._] ANNABELLE. Go on. HUGH. In the second place, you make me too damn comfortable. My clothes are always brushed and laid out just right. If I don’t want to dress, they vanish. Dinner is always ready any time, hot and delicious and too much of it! Other people’s cooks leave, but ours are marvels and stick. There’s never a sound in the house when I’m composing or practising. I never know when the piano-tuner comes, but the piano is always perfect. You never ask for more allowance, and the children never howl. But what—what about me? It’s awful! I’m getting fat! And my music! It’s getting fat, too. It waddles and clucks and cackles like a stuffed goose. And my soul, it’s growing fat—too fat to soar. Oh, it’s killing me—it’s killing me! ANNABELLE. [_Taking all the pins out of her mouth._] Hugh! are you serious? I think your music is perfectly beautiful. You know I do. HUGH. Perfectly serious. I’m stifled, I tell you. I’m gasping for air. You smother me with comfort and ease and adoration. I’m dying of it, and, what’s worse, the heart, the core, the essence of me, the music I might have written! It’s dead too! Oh, it’s awful, awful! [_He paces the room like a caged tiger._] ANNABELLE. [_Watching him for a while._]